Turncoat
by pretend-to-care
Summary: Natasha Romanoff is tired of America, of SHIELD, of being a team player. She has never kept a position this long, and she's uncomfortable. So when a Russian crime gang expresses their desire to eliminate the new superweapon called the Avengers, she agrees to help them. Because she doesn't make friends, she doesn't keep alliances, and she doesn't care. Or so she tells herself.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Natasha and the other Avengers are not mine. I wish. Also, I do not speak Russian, and neither does Google. I swear I did not mean to butcher this language. **

**A/N: Dear reader, please bear with me. I have never finished a multichapter fic and it breaks my heart. I have such a vision for this, though, and I so want to stick with it. So this is not only a fic, but kind of a personal goal. Reviews and feedback, even just a follow, would offer some much-needed support. I honestly can't promise regular updates, but I am definitely going to try. Please be patient with me and if updates get a little sketchy, feel free to give me a nudge. I really hope you enjoy!**

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Monday morning found Natasha Romanoff sitting at her favorite corner table inside the coffee shop on Grant and Third. The little café was packed, because Mondays necessitated espressos, muffins, cinnamon bread—anything to help ease the workforce into the new week. She sipped her caramel cappuccino and watched office drones shuffle through the line, reflecting on the high-end shoes and custom-tailored suits and the money thrown away on manicures and hair appointments and gym memberships to work off the doughnuts being bought in this early morning hour of weakness. So different from Russia. So different from the humble, frugal laborers of her home country.

It was funny, sitting here in a comfortable New York café and thinking back on those years. Apparently she had repressed some of the worst memories, because she remembered her childhood with a strange sort of fondness. She would never truly miss Russia—she did enjoy high-end shoes and manicures—but she was not immune to a slanted form of homesickness for the open meadow valleys, the icy clear nights, the shy hospitality and national pride of the people, and the sight of centuries-old spires against the sky. She longed for that sight. Russian architecture was distinctive, and decidedly not American, and she loved it dearly. How many days had she wasted exploring the Kremlin and the Red Square, neck craned and head thrown back like a tourist? She turned her gaze out the front window, regarded the impersonal parallel lines of New York skyscrapers, and begrudged a wry smile. Perhaps she missed Russia more than she cared to admit. Or perhaps she was merely growing tired of America.

She rose from the booth and passed the counter, dropping a few bucks into the tip jar and making her way down the line of patrons to the door. No sooner had she reached it than a bear of a man stepped from the street, filling the doorframe from floor to ceiling. He looked down at her with pale blue eyes, little boy eyes that suggested a youthful innocence somewhere inside the mountain of a man. But the thick, bristly beard on his face and the very slight bulge beneath his coat that hinted at the presence of a gun made the innocence appear as nothing more than a cheap rubber Halloween mask.

"Excuse me," Natasha said, moving to squeeze past him.

"Just a moment, _devochka_."

She blinked, startled by the word and his rough accent. She hadn't been called _devochka_ since her grade school days. She regarded the man with new eyes, saw in the prominence of his cheekbones and the shape of his nose a marked similarity to the faces in her childhood memories. He was Russian, and she felt like a fool for not seeing it sooner.

The enigmatic smile he gave her made his mustache twist. "What say we sit and talk? Only for a minute."

Natasha was extremely conscious of the other patrons. The man was armed, that much was certain, and she worried what he would do if she were to refuse. And in any case, before she could give an answer, he planted his hand on her shoulder and spun her around, giving her a gentle push in the direction of her table. Her first instinct was to turn and deliver a swift punch to his solar plexus, but she managed to suppress the impulse and instead walked stiffly back to the booth with her new friend close behind her.

She took the seat nearest to the door without asking his preference. He wedged himself into the booth, placed his large hands on the table, and smiled at her again. "A pleasant morning to you, Natasha."

"Ms. Romanoff, please." There was a coolness in her voice that she made no effort to control.

He chuckled. "Of course. Ms. Romanoff."

Natasha pursed her lips and glanced down at his hands. He sported so many rings it looked as though his fingers were wearing armor. The index, middle, and ring fingers of his left hand were bare in comparison to the others; tattooed on their middle joints were the left wing, head and body, and right wing of a black bird. It stirred something in her memory; Natasha had seen the emblem before, both in her father's files and those of SHIELD. It was the crest of a far-reaching Russian crime syndicate—terrorists and extortionists, most of them. What they could want with her was something she preferred not to think about.

"You like this?" He held up his hand and wiggled his finger.

"You're from Voron'ye Krylo," she replied. Voron'ye Krylo, the Raven's Wing. In Russia, a raven's wing nailed to your door meant that you had stepped too far out of line for their taste. Such a calling card had amused her father. He had dealt with them on multiple occasions.

His face lit up. "You have heard of us."

"Unfortunately." She took an odd sort of comfort in placing him with an organization, no matter their reputation. Despite her initial surprise at his appearance, she was back on her feet and any trace of intimidation had long since disappeared.

He chuckled and clasped his hands. "My name is Nikolay Rodin. I am here on behalf of Voron'ye Krylo, you are correct."

"You speak nice English."

"Thank you." He shrugged. "A part of the job."

Natasha mirrored his position, clasping her thin fingers and leaning back in her seat. "You seem kinda friendly for Voron'ye Krylo."

Nikolay chuckled again. "That is why I am the messenger. I am amiable, I am told."

"Can't disagree with that. You've put me at ease already." She smiled. "Don't you want to take off your coat? New York in May is pretty warm."

He returned her smile and shook his head. "No thank you, _devochka_. I think it would be better for us all if I kept it on." His hand dropped to his firearm.

Natasha sighed. It had been worth a shot. "So what do you want with me, Mr. Rodin?"

"Nikolay, please. I come from the northern circle of Voron'ye Krylo. We have taken an interest in you since the incident here in New York a few weeks ago."

"Ah. Of course. It was a pretty big deal, wasn't it."

"Indeed, Ms. Romanoff. And of all those involved, you shone the brightest in our eyes."

She tilted her head. "You're too kind."

"Why wouldn't we be impressed with you? You are Russian, you are beautiful, you are very skilled in your field. In fact, we are so taken with you that we would like to hire you, Ms. Romanoff. For a temporary assignment, of course."

Of all the scenarios she had considered, this had not made the list. She allowed some surprise to show in her thin eyebrows. "An assignment," she repeated.

"Yes. A very delicate sort of assignment."

"Give me the details."

Nikolay leaned in a little closer. "We know about you. We know that you do not stay in one place very long. We know that the word 'loyalty' is ambiguous where you are concerned. It is written all over your file. You have been here almost eighteen months. This SHIELD position, it is losing its charm for you, no?"

Natasha was unsettled. He was spot-on. Her position at SHIELD had been a good, stable job, and one that she had certainly enjoyed. But she was growing restless. The SHIELD missions, after a while, had become mundane and even routine—with the exception of this latest otherworldly attack on New York. But the intense wave of publicity that had come down upon SHIELD and everyone involved in that episode had made her skittish, very skittish. She made an effort to avoid that kind of attention, and Nikolay was a perfect example of why: she did not want to pique the interest of organizations like Voron'ye Krylo. Suddenly she was a sort of celebrity, the star of news footage around the world, and it was her worst nightmare. Particularly in America, where everyone had a cell phone and a television and aliens demolishing New York City became viral videos in seconds. She felt exposed and vulnerable. And the publicity was not the only cause of this. Nikolay had hit that on the head as well.

Loyalty.

She was growing far too attached to these people. Rogers, the perfect man, naïve and considerate and hero all over. Banner, who both amused and terrified her at the same time. Even Stark had his good points—beneath the snark and showmanship was real strength. And Clint. Clint, who made her feel exposed and vulnerable just by speaking, no matter how hard she tried to deny it. Natasha had learned about friendship at a young age. It was an asset at times, a necessity on occasion, and a liability always. _Always_. For a while now, she had been toying with the idea of leaving, disappearing without notice. She was too close here, much too close, and she was growing claustrophobic.

Natasha cleared her throat. "You got all that from a file, huh?"

Nikolay smiled. "Are we mistaken?" She didn't answer, so he continued. "We realize that you are a part of the Avengers team. But you are not really a part of their team, are you? You are your own woman. According to the file, you do not like alliances. So you will be leaving soon, won't you? Catching a plane to…to South America or South Asia or even Russia?"

Were they tapped into her internet history? She had been monitoring plane tickets for the past month. No purchasing, only window shopping. The need to move was eating at her.

Loyalty.

"Get to your point, Mr. Rodin."

"Nikolay," he corrected her smoothly. "I am sure you see the danger of a force like the Avengers. There is a scale, Ms. Romanoff. A delicate scale that measures the balance of power. The Avengers…they tip the scale. Do you think it is fair that America gets their little elite force, while the rest of us must rely on conventional defenses? These…superheroes, they create a new breed of superpower. If we take no action, we are simply handing America a throne from which to look down upon the rest of the world. This is unacceptable." He knit his caterpillar brows together, looking almost plaintive. "I know you understand politics, Ms. Romanoff. I know you see why the Avengers cannot be allowed to remain intact."

Natasha couldn't say that she failed to see his point. In fact, she agreed with him. The Avengers were a superweapon. They placed America's military in an extremely favorable, extremely threatening position. She could see where this conversation was heading, but she wasn't sure how she felt about it, not yet. So she figured she may as well allow him to finish his piece.

"Tell me what you want from me, Nikolay."

He sighed and smiled and delivered the blow that she had been expecting. "We would like you to use your valuable connections and your singular skill set to eliminate the Avengers."

Natasha held his gaze for a second longer before dropping it to her hands, reflecting on what shocked her most: the request itself, or the fact that she was giving it serious consideration. Eliminating the Avengers. Making Rogers and Banner and Stark her targets. She clenched her hands and watched her fingertips go pale and then purple.

"Are you able to do it?"

Her gaze snapped up sharply. "Of course."

"Could you do it?"

Natasha narrowed her eyes. "You just asked me that."

Nikolay smiled. "No, I did not."

Slowly Natasha dropped her gaze once more. Could she do it? Could she put those men in the ground? _Those_ men? She had broken alliances before, sometimes messily. But this one…this one was different.

Loyalty.

She sighed and looked up at him and decided to be frank. "I won't kill them. I couldn't…I would rather not do that."

"Natasha—"

"It's Ms. Romanoff," she snapped, "and I will not kill them in cold blood. Not after what we've been through. I won't betray them that way."

Loyalty.

Nikolay looked disappointed. "So you decline."

Natasha turned to gaze out the window at the skyscrapers. "I…didn't say that."

She could hear the confused hope in his response. "So what are you saying, Ms. Romanoff?"

She was sick of impersonal vertical lines. She wanted cathedral spires. She was growing weary of America. It was time to cut ties. It was time to move on.

Loyalty.

She turned back to Nikolay with resolve in her eyes and the set of her jaw. "I want the body count low. I want the job short. I want to be out of this country in less than two weeks."

His entire face was lit up beneath the dark beard. "Agreed. Agreed."

Natasha rose from the booth. "Consider my terms, rethink your angle, and contact me no later than tomorrow morning. I'm sure _that_ information was in my file."

"Yes, yes. We will. Thank you, Ms. Romanoff."

She stood motionless for a few seconds while the world adjusted to the gravity of her decision. "You're welcome."

With that, she turned and strode out of the café.

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**Like I said, feedback would be awesome. Hope you enjoyed!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: None of the characters or organizations from the Marvelverse are mine. **

**A/N: Not a ton of action in this one, but lots of Natasha sads. Enjoy!**

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Natasha spent the remainder of the day wandering through New York without an agenda. She visited her favorite stores, stopped for lunch at an Asian restaurant, browsed over the city without truly taking any of it in. She was walking through a torrential rain with her thought process as an all-encompassing umbrella. Sights and sounds bounced off of her like light off a mirror, yet behind the reflective surface was a chaotic whirl of thought.

Natasha was about to make a big change, a huge change, and she needed to prepare herself. She had always been good at compartmentalizing, a definite asset in her line of work. So now, as she sat on a bench in Central Park holding a magazine she didn't recall purchasing, she closed her eyes and began a mental cleanup of the past several months.

She began with the battle with Loki's innumerable forces and moved backwards through her career at SHIELD, calling up her most vivid memories, fingering and remolding them before dropping them back down. She separated events from emotion, like cutting out letters from a newspaper, and pasted in a whole new message.

Yes, these things happened, in the past. The past has no bearing on the present, but the present holds all hope of the future. So for her own sake, for her own safety, she would let go of the past. She would adapt. And she would focus on the present for the good of the future.

The moments in battle when Rogers had saved her life and the moments out of battle when he had opened doors for her. Gone. Those rare occasions when Director Fury made her laugh, and the late nights spent watching Banner sneak around on candid camera. Gone. The countless times when she had restrained herself from decking Stark in the face and the much rarer instances when she had admired his innovation. Gone.

These things happened, in the past. But Natasha Romanoff lived in the present.

She soon came to the time she had spent at SHIELD before the Avengers, back when life was a series of covert operations and long plane rides. Here she encountered a problem, a strong, witty problem with a killer smile.

For some reason, there was an abundance of memories involving Agent Barton. The operations where he was her wingman and his stupid tradition of a post-mission snack. The time when he caught her gaze from across the medical center and made faces while she got twenty-six stitches across her abdomen. His smart remarks during debriefings, his uncanny ability to barge in on an intense situation at the last possible second. The time they had both been sent back to basic training for causing a slight international incident. The way he cared for his equipment. The way he liked to climb things—trees, buildings, staircases, structural supports. The expression on his face when he coaxed a smile from her. Budapest. Tokyo. Cairo. Rome. Kiev. Johannesburg.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

Natasha Romanoff lived in the present.

She had gone through this process before, this mental cleansing. Her tendency to come across as detached and unemotional in person was due, in part, to this severance of emotional connection. According to her memory, she had been nothing more than an audience member to the events that played out during the running time of her life. The emotion had come, had been vivid in the moment, but now it was gone. Completely. Because she couldn't afford otherwise.

Natasha took a deep breath in through her nose and released it softly from her mouth. She closed her magazine and rose from the park bench, tossed the latest summer fashions and twenty tips to a better relationship in a nearby garbage can, and strode down the path toward the street. She would never be able to sit at that bench again, she knew, but that was okay, because with any luck, she would be out of the country inside of a week.

Her apartment no longer smelled familiar when she walked in. The furnishings were sparse, little more than a few items of furniture and the necessary appliances, almost all of which had come with the apartment. Natasha was accustomed to spartan conditions and in truth, an excess of furniture made her uneasy. When the time came to leave, there would be little to pack.

She made herself a small evening meal and curled up on the couch to channel surf until bedtime. Typically she avoided TV, but she badly needed an escape from her own problems and the romance novel she was almost finished with lacked a certain appeal tonight. So she switched on some late night sitcom, laid her curly crimson head on a throw pillow, and was asleep by eleven o'clock.

Necessity and a few bad experiences had made her a light sleeper. So when there was a soft rap at her door followed by the slither of paper, her eyes snapped open and her hand moved immediately from her side to the .22 she kept between the couch cushions. She turned her gaze on the dark corner where her door was while her eyes adjusted to the blackness; she drew the gun and aimed blind, waiting for another noise. The seconds crept by and none came. Natasha remained motionless for two, almost three minutes, before determining that her apartment was empty and there was no one coming in.

She kept her thin finger on the trigger as she slowly sat up and felt for the nearby lamp. She clicked it on and squinted in the sudden light, gave the room a quick visual search just to be sure, and let her gun fall to her side as she stood up. There was a kink in her neck from the stupid throw pillow and Natasha rubbed it as she approached the door. Her gaze fell on the unassuming manila envelope lying on the floor. There was a small, angular lump at the bottom, and as a result it had just barely fit through the space beneath the door. It lacked any sort of address or postmark, she saw as she picked it up, but there was no question in her mind who it was from or what it was for. Natasha set her gun on the counter and turned it over in her hands, eyeing it with some apprehension. But it was just an envelope. An envelope with the terms of her latest assignment, nothing more. And because it was just an envelope, she stopped staring at it like it might explode in her face and tore it open.

She pulled out the single sheet of paper and read it quickly. The words were in Russian—Cyrillic characters were an acceptable encryption for communications with little chance of interception—but the message was simple.

_We have taken your terms into consideration. Fatalities will be minimal, but do not forget we are aiming to destroy this organization. You will follow orders with perfect accuracy from this point forward. _

_At the completion of all tasks, as compensation for your services, you will be provided with $2 million and an airline ticket to the destination of your choice. All record of your involvement will be terminated, all obligations annulled. In the event of your capture, we expect discretion, and we will deny any and all accusations made as to our involvement in the situation. If necessary, we will take defensive action. _

At the phrase "defensive action", Natasha furrowed her brow. Voron'ye Krylo's definition of "defensive action" was a bullet in through the front of your skull and out the back. The warning was obvious: if she gambled on this with any sort of double-cross, she would lose. But then again, the stakes were never low for her, and she had expected as much from Voron'ye Krylo.

As she read on, the details of her first "task" became clear, and she pursed her lips tighter with every line. When she had finished, Natasha set the paper aside and tipped the envelope. Out slid a nano flash drive little bigger than her thumbnail. She held it in her palm, regarding it thoughtfully. The contents of that drive would take down one of the biggest assets of both the Avengers and SHIELD in the bargain. All she had to do was plug it in.

Natasha closed her palm around it and looked up at the ceiling, feeling lightheaded. She was really on board with this. She was going to take down the Avengers.

And Stark was her first target.

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